Those Brits should be ashamed of themselves!

 

Lawrence

 

Well some of us are and some of us aren't.

 

With a story or two to tell, I'm trying my brother-in-law's keyboard, fully conscious of how much the finger thingy affects the message.  Impressions of Southern California?  How nice it is to arrive when your flight is cancelled, was the first.  The housesitter arrived on time, on her bike, and confirmed that she was indeed a descendant of the Baird who invented television.  Off we went to the airport where Alaskan airlines were able to confirm that they had thought better of the whole flying thing and so that thousand dollars we had spent would have to be applied on some other kind of plane...did we have anything in mind?  How, for example, would a six hour delay in Portland's airport suit? 

Eventually we decided to fly down to San Diego, (a proposition that involved being bumped up to First Class) borrow my father-in-law's car, stay overnight...the details aren't all that interesting.  The short version is that things worked out just fine, apart from the fact that my father-in-law failed to mention that his car doesn't start some of the time.

On the Thursday we drove to Occidental College, and then to our true target, the SAAB mechanic recommended by Car Talk's website.  He turned out to be a Swede who had fallen for a Phillipina (is that right...a woman from the Phillipines) and moved to L.A.  He seemed sound on cars and on daughters, which was all I cared about.  Having experienced L.A. driving, which now resembles New York taxi drivers on speed, I decided I would rather buy a car from the mechanic than send down the car that Emily has been driving.  Which opened the question of what he recommended.  He suggested two vehicles and said that their owners would call us on my cell phone.

In Friday's Highland dancing both girls won medals, which was great.

On Saturday, the day of the National Championship, we went to the beach which, like everywhere I'd seen since I landed, had turned into some version of Disneyland.  Laguna Beach used to be a sleepy little place with artists and even its own town greeter.  Now it is one giant Schlock Emporium.  I did, however, have a blackened Ahi sandwich that was seared on the outside, raw in the middle and quite wonderful.

On Sunday morning the girls competed in the Southern California Open Championship and, according to form (and in Highland Dancing form is rarely wrong) Emily should have won a medal or two.  Julia was lumped into the same age group as Emily and thus, though she danced well, was unlikely to be rewarded for her efforts.  When they announced the results, neither girl had won anything and kids that they regularly beat had won things.  Something was in the air.

The afternoon's competition brought everyone out of the woodwork.  By this I mean that the morning's competition was for medals and glory; the afternoon's was for money and big trophies, so all the dancers who had won in the National Championship on Saturday, or most of them, chose to enter.  To lengthen the odds, the organizers decided that the afternoon's competition would be sixteen and under, one group; sixteen and over, second group.  Thus Emily and Julia were competing against all the champions--and the Canadians who had come to see what their opposition in the World Championship would look like--up to those already in graduate school.

It was a simple competition: one dance, with those who pleased the judges getting called back for a second round.  In the first round I thought Julia did well, but Emily looked really excellent.  But in a field of twenty five champions, what was the point?  When the call back numbers were announced, Julia had changed and Emily, though still in her kilt, had her shoes and socks off.  Her number was called.  The dancer who came first in her age group in the national competition did not make it. 

We worked like a pit crew in a car race to get her shoes and socks on. 

Only ten dancers made the second round. 

The three judges who elected the first group, ceded their seats to a second set of three judges.  New minds to please.

After the second round I congratulated Emily when she exited the stage.  I thought it was the best I'd ever seen her dance.  Laura was sitting by her teacher, who explained all the things that Emily had done wrong when compared to the girl who was dancing next to her, someone who had won everything and is now in graduate school.  Then I leaned against the back wall of the hall and watched the champion of champions, the girl who makes everything look so beautiful.  I shouldn't write "girl" when she's about to enter medical school.  I looked left and saw that I was standing beside her mother.  She said something about how well Emily had danced.

Six places were awarded.  They called the numbers.  Emily's number was called.  Even now, as I type, tears are welling.  What are the chances that she who didn't qualify at regionals would be good enough for sixth place in such a competition?

They all stood on the stage.  "And sixth place goes to..."  Not Emily. 

Fifth place...not Emily. 

Fourth. 

Remaining were the champion of champions, the girl to whom Emily's teacher had compared her performance... and our daughter. 

Third place, Emily Ritchie, winner of a hundred and fifty bucks, a giant glass vase, and as far as I'm concerned the dancing equivalent of the battle of Bannockburn.

The Scots love nothing so much as an against-all-odds victory.

Today we returned to the car guy and checked out a Volvo, one of the two cars the fellow had recommended.  The other car's owner has yet to call us.  The Volvo turned out to be a nice car.  I trust the fellow.  I do not trust his wife, who is in my mind behind an increase in the loosey-goosey asking price of the car.  I think we'll work it out and I'm very pleased to have someone close to the college to whom Emily can take the car.

Why does she need a car at all?  So that she can continue to take dance lessons which, after this weekend, are impossible to refuse.

Tomorrow, we're to see women's professional tennis.  This is after fourteen hours of Disneyland on Monday.  Having fun in Southern Califnornia is a vigorous sort of a thing.

Literature?  Ideas?  Sunday Poems?

 

David Ritchie,

San Diego, CA